


“Could you please pass the milk?”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Kisses [48]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Revisiting First Kisses...





	“Could you please pass the milk?”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelvindalegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelvindalegirl/gifts).



> A gift for Kelvindalegirl.
> 
> “Can you do one where Strike and Robin somehow come together for a sizzling first kiss where nothing is said beforehand? It just has to happen? A look or a smile or a light touch or a situation or a realisation? They just do it after a silent “moment” or moments type thing?”

Robin closed the outer office door and took a shaky breath. It wasn’t always easy providing clients with evidence of their cheating spouses, and this one hadn’t gone well. Mr Spiky (named for being generally quite prickly) had taken it as somewhat of a personal affront that his wife was indeed sleeping with her fitness instructor, and demanded reasons that Robin couldn’t supply. He was technically Strike’s client, but had dropped by unannounced, so she’d taken the opportunity to full him in. She supposed now that she should have played ignorant and let Strike deal with it next week, but she had wanted to put him out of his misery. Not that he’d looked particularly happy afterwards.

It was done now. She moved to the kitchenette and filled the kettle. A restorative cup of tea was in order. She glanced across to her window. It was still drizzling steadily, grey in a way only London could really be, although the lights from cars and shop fronts were quite pretty when fractured through raindrops. London had a beauty of its own that was nothing like rural Yorkshire. It had taken her a long time to see it.

She flicked the switch on the kettle and went to tidy up Mr Spiky’s file. She could hear Strike’s heavy tread on the stairs now. It was almost five. A few more bits of paperwork to tidy up and it would be time for their traditional Friday night drink at the Tottenham. Ian, her new flatmate, was cooking for her later so she didn’t have to dash home to sort food. And she and Strike had been invited to Nick and Ilsa’s again tomorrow for a curry, something else that had become quite regular since Robin had lived with the Herberts for a few weeks. She smiled softly to herself as she tucked Mr Spiky’s file into the drawer. She liked the patterns and routines of her new life. She liked having her freedom, her own space, being herself. She liked the quiet, gentle friendship she had found with her partner. If she could just get her unruly heart under control, so that it didn’t flutter all over the place when he came too near, life would be perfect.

He opened the door and came in, huge and dripping, shrugging off the big coat which shed raindrops as he hung it on the peg. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her as he ran a big hand through his wet hair, shedding more water and then still more as his curls, untamed even by the weight of the rainwater, sprang back up again.

“What did Mr Spiky want?”

“Oh, he dropped by so I filled him in, gave him the photos and his bill. Is that okay?” Robin suddenly wondered if she should have, as Strike’s brows knit together in a frown.

“I was going to do him, thought he might get arsey. How was he?”

“Um, okay, mostly. Demanded to know why a few times, but then he calmed down and left. I’m getting quite good at ‘carefully non-committal’ these days.”

Strike nodded. “As long as he wasn’t rude to you.”

Robin shook her head briskly, looking braver than she felt. “Nah, just upset. Tea?”

“Yeah, please. Got some notes to write up, and I want to get these pictures uploaded, camera got a bit wet and I don’t want it dying on us with evidence still on it.” Stamping the last drops of water off his boots, Strike moved through to his own office, camera in hand. He frowned a little to himself. He was sure Mr Spiky had been more difficult than Robin was letting on, she looked...a little shaken. But he knew better than to suggest in any way that she hadn’t managed. Then he’d be dealing with an entirely different but equally spiky person.

He sighed a little. He was looking forward to pub night, as he always did, but Robin was wearing that soft pale green blouse again, and he found it so much harder to concentrate on being professional when she looked like that and the Doom Bar was flowing. He resolved to make it a swift drink this evening, and idly pondered texting Shanker so he had a real excuse and didn’t have to lie.

He plugged the camera into the cable attached to his laptop and leaned across to the mouse to open the app to upload the pictures.

Robin found mugs and selected two tea bags from the caddy, trying not to wonder what Strike’s hair would feel like wet. Springy? Soft? _Stop it!_

She could hear him coming back as she poured the water into the mugs.

“Did you get good pictures of Henna Hannah, then?”

Strike grunted affirmation, reaching across to pick up the biscuit tin, a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Got proof she’s visiting the house, and staying for a couple of hours. No actual evidence of anything going on, though. She really could be advising him on wallpaper and curtains.”

Robin snorted. “I guess it’s possible,” she said. “But when is it ever the innocent explanation?” She cast him a cheeky wink as she put the kettle back down.

Strike grinned at her, and their eyes met, hers dancing cheekily and his fond. Robin was relaxed now that the vaguely threatening client was gone and her partner was back, she felt safe. And Strike was glad to be back in off the streets and in their cosy office, with the promise of tea and biscuits and a spot of banter about their latest mark and her supposed interior design consultancy (of which there was zero evidence, not even a folder or portfolio).

They lingered just a beat too long, and heat surged in Robin suddenly, her blue-grey eyes still locked on his dark ones.

Strike put the biscuit tin down.

Robin put her hand out. “Cormoran...”

Strike leaned down and kissed her.

Robin swallowed a squeak as their lips met. Her eyes fluttered closed as he kissed her softly, just lip to lip, gentle, questioning. Then he drew back.

“Yes, Robin?” he murmured, his eyes warm.

“Um, I was going to ask you to pass the milk.” Robin waved vaguely at the milk on the counter next to him with the hand she had reached out.

Strike pulled back, horrified realisation dawning on his face. Robin reached the hand up and slid it into his hair. Soft _and_ springy.

“This is better, though,” she said huskily, and pulled him back for another kiss.

He groaned a little and wrapped his arms around her, opening his mouth over hers, kissing her and kissing her. Robin clung to him, her other arm sliding around his waist, her tongue seeking his.

They kissed for a long minute, work and difficult clients and rain and interior design forgotten. Eventually, reluctantly, Strike drew back again, trembling. Robin smiled softly up at him.

“Cormoran,” she murmured again.

“Yes, Robin?”

“Could you please pass the milk?”

Strike laughed his big laugh, and passed it to her.


End file.
